by A. M. Wilson
“What’s wrong with her? She seemed alright when I tucked her in last night, besides being more tired than usual.”
“It’s about the same, except she hasn’t been out of bed all day. I could only get her to eat one cup of jello and one cup of yogurt with her pills crushed inside. Her son has been here most of the afternoon.”
My heart plummets into my stomach.
“That sucks, Kels. I’ll see what I can do. Emerson is coming over for a bit, but I’ll try to make it over this evening.”
“Alright girl, my break is up. See you later, okay?”
“Yeah, you probably will. Later, girl.”
We disconnect and I take a minute to soak in our conversation. Since I began working at my job, I’ve never been close to one of the residents that have passed away. I don’t do death well; the thought of my own death sends me spiraling into a panic attack, and I’m unsure how I’m going to handle Monica’s passing. I know how completely moronic that sounds, considering how I manage my emotions, but even though I tear my flesh apart to cope, it doesn’t mean I’m suicidal. I’m just…messed up.
Fixing myself a BLT, complete with microwaved bacon because who really has time to cook it in a pan, I park my butt on a stool to wait for Emerson. Not even thirty seconds later, she bursts through my door, huffing and puffing as if she ran the whole way here.
“What’s the matter with you!” I cry, coughing up bits of my sandwich I inhaled at her dramatic entrance. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Sorry, I just have news and I’m so excited!” She sits down beside me, picking up my uneaten half of sandwich and takes a bite.
“Um, did you want one?” I offer after the fact. She shakes her head no, shoving the rest of the food in her mouth. “Okay, then. Well I did,” I grumble. I wander over to the microwave to cook a few more pieces of bacon. “Spill, Em. What’s your news?”
“Okay, so get this,” she starts, stopping for a dramatic pause. “Grant asked me out today!” she squeals, clapping her hands together like a five year old at the circus.
“That’s great, really. What are you guys going to do?” I ask as I arrange the bacon in a crosshatch pattern on top of the lettuce.
“He’s taking me to the dinner theater on 1st.”
The dinner theater on 1st Ave is about thirty minutes away and used to be a movie theater in the 1970’s. The old abandoned building was bought up about 10 years ago, renovated, and turned into an expensive night out complete with a three course meal and a two hour show. For obvious reasons, I’ve never been there, but I can tell Emerson is totally pumped.
“Whoa, that’s got to be expensive. I bet you’ll have a great time,” I tell her, tamping down the ugly green monster inside me.
We take up residence on my bed, and I fill Emerson in on my day, including a detailed description of my panic attack. She listens deeply and effortlessly, like I knew she would, and offers lovely bouts of profanity at all the appropriate places. Feeling like I bared my soul and I’m emotionally empty, I tell her about Mrs. Marsden, and how I’m going to visit her tonight.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Thanks, but it’s okay. Kelsey and Finn are both working tonight so I’ll be fine. She may not even die tonight. There’s no way to estimate something like this. She could hang on for a couple more weeks easily.”
Emerson glances at her cell, typing out a rapid-fire text. “Well, I should go then, so you can head over. It’s nearing six and I have some homework to do. Another fricken English assignment. Mrs. Bergson will be the death of me this semester.”
“You’ll make it,” I console her. “Thanks for coming by. I needed this after my day today.”
“It’s no problem. I love spending time with my best friend, but maybe you should think about laying off Mr. Ryan. If all you accomplish is getting yourself worked up, it’s not worth it,” she offers, giving me a long, hard hug. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. See you first period.”
***
Monica’s room is quiet when I walk in, only a small bedside lamp casting a comforting glow over the room. Kelsey told me her son, David, stepped out for a bite to eat when he heard I was coming by. I’ve gotten to know David over the past year as he likes to visit his mom frequently, especially in the evenings. He’s in his mid-forties, married with two kids, and lives right across town. I’ve even bumped into him out and about while picking up groceries or getting a bite to eat, and we’ve chatted about his mom before going on our separate ways. I feel sorry for him; losing a loved one that I didn’t have a connection with was hard, but losing a loved one you shared your entire life with? I can’t even imagine the pain he is beginning to feel, knowing her time is imminent.
Sinking down to kneel beside her bed, I take her cold hand between both of mine.
“Hi, Monica,” I tell her gently, trying not to rouse her but wanting her to know I’m here. “It’s Tatum. I came to visit you for a bit.” She doesn’t stir, and I didn’t expect her to, so I sit quietly and trace small circles around her hand with my thumb. I thought it might be strange or eerie, to sit in a room with a dying person, knowing they aren’t really with you, waiting for them to pass, but I actually feel a calm sense of acceptance. She looks peaceful.
I begin talking about my day, telling Monica about my calculus teacher and how he seems to push every button I have. I talk to her about Emerson, and how I’m trying to not let my jealousy get the best of me when I feel I’m just as pretty, just as deserving as Emerson to have someone like me. How I’m almost eighteen years old and yet, I’ve never been on a date or been given flowers or had someone dote on me. I’ve never even been given a love note of any kind, even the little stupid ones from third grade that say ‘check yes or no.’ And I don’t stop to wipe the tears running from the corners of my eyes as I tell her how I wish I had a mother as caring and kind, as full of wisdom as she always was before the last few months when her mind started to slip.
I reach over to her bookshelf and pull out the dark brown, cloth covered journal she used to spend her life writing about different events, words her children spoke, or thought provoking questions she had. This book, written by hand, is filled with her life’s history, and even though I’ve read it to her a hundred times, I sit back and begin reading it aloud again.
“If she were awake right now, she’d love to listen to that.” David startles me after about five pages in, and comes to take a seat on the foot of her bed, rubbing his mother’s leg, looking down at her with such an intense admiration, I almost look away. But I don’t. I want to witness this, something I will probably never have in my own life. It’s a masochistic action, but what can I say? I’m used to inflicting pain.
“How long were you listening?” I ask, wondering if he overheard my blubbering rant.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I think you needed to get that out,” he says without looking at me.
I feel he’s giving me as much privacy as he can to absorb the fact that I wasn’t alone with Monica. All I can manage is a slight nod of my head, not wanting to meet his eyes.
“How long are you staying?” he asks softly.
“I’m not sure, but I can go if you’d like to be alone.”
“I just need a minute. I need to get home to my kids so my wife can work tonight. I think my mother and I have spent a lot of time together today, and if tonight is the night, I feel I’m at peace.”
Without another word, I walk into the hall, closing the door to give David some privacy. He opens the door a few minutes later, and stops in front of me on his way down the hall. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I meet his steady gaze head on.
“Have someone call me if…you know. I’ll come right over,” he says and I nod my head in affirmation. “It’s been wonderful getting to know you over the past year Tatum, and I can’t even express how touched my mother would be to know you felt comfortable enough to share your emotion
s with her the way you just did. Thank you for all you’ve done for my family. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, kiddo.” He squeezes my shoulder once more, before continuing his way down the hall.
My feet are cemented to the floor, and after a few minutes of soaking in his gratitude, I find my way back into Monica’s room, sinking back down onto the floor where I cry.
I’m interrupted a few times throughout the night, as the nurse comes in to check on Monica every couple of hours. Around midnight, I had dozed off, and woke up to this awful choking sound coming from the bed. Mrs. Marsden was still asleep, but when she breathed, her chest made this dreadful gurgling sound, like the sound of a child blowing bubbles through a straw into a thick milkshake. After calling the nurse down, she informed me Monica was experiencing what is termed ‘the death rattle.” The name gives me all sorts of comfort. She told me it doesn’t hurt, and Monica’s body is slowly beginning to shut down. She gave me some sponges to help keep Monica’s mouth moist with water, and told me to call if I need anything.
Kelsey also pokes her head in every so often, making sure I’m alright, and helping me to change Monica’s soiled briefs.
We both take a break for some fresh air, and for the first time in a year, I bum a smoke from her. It’d be nice to feel the warm comfort of a blade, but I can’t even consider doing that here. Smoking a cigarette is my only option that won’t make my coworkers look at me as though I belong in an insane asylum.
Igniting the first puff, I can feel the nicotine coursing through my veins, down to the tips of my fingers and swirling around my head. I close my eyes against the rush of poison, reminding myself with each exhale I’m releasing some of the tension from the night. I revel in the familiar scent of burning tobacco, thankful I have something to use as a reprieve. We don’t speak, Kelsey and me. I love her for that. She saw my red rimmed eyes and knows this is hard for me.
Returning to Monica’s room feels different. The clock on her nightstand shows 5:43 in bright green glowing numbers. Scooting up to sit beside her on the bed, I’m overcome with this feeling that it’s time. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. I can feel it in the room, in my skin, in my freaking soul. If I believed in this sort of thing, I’d swear the Grim Reaper was standing in this very room.
I grab her hand, listening to the slowing of her rattling, shallow breathes, and I begin to comb my fingers through her hair.
“It’s okay, Monica,” I whisper quietly, my eyes fixated on her motionless face. “Everyone is okay here. David and the kids are doing just fine. He told me he’s feeling very peaceful.” I feel her hand move softly within mine. I know she can hear me, so I keep talking. “I’m sure you’re afraid, but you don’t need to be. I’m here with you, and I’m not leaving.”
So suddenly it frightens me, her eyes snap open, fixating on something just beyond my shoulder. She’s holding my hand tightly, her eyes wide, round with fear, and she takes in a deep rattling breath.
“Monica, I’m here. It’s okay. You can let go now…it’s okay,” I tell her, although I’m terrified at what I’m witnessing. My own heart rate kicks up as I try to put myself in her place and imagine what she’s experiencing.
And just as suddenly as she awoke, her face changes. Her eyes soften, almost as if the fear is melting away, and her grip loosens on my hand. She takes one last deep breath and just before her eyes close, she smiles.
Holy shit.
She’s gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Ryan
Four missed calls, two missed voicemails. Now that he’s made contact, Brent has been trying to reach me all day, and I’m thankful my phone was turned to silent in my brief case.
It’s been two years since I had to lose the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’ve spent two years running. The wounds haven’t healed; they tear open with even the slightest thought of her. Any mention of her name sends my skin prickling into goose bumps, even now. I know I should call them back, deal with what’s bound to come, but I just can’t. I’m not ready yet, not prepared to revisit a pain so harsh it’s tucked down into the deepest corners of my being. Resonates within my soul each time her face crosses my mind.
So I delete the messages without listening and erase the calls. I hit the gym for the second time today and for now, pretend they don’t exist.
When I do get home after a rough cardio session, I revisit the email Melissa sent earlier. Snatching a cold brew from my fridge, I load the message on my laptop and sink into the leather recliner. Rereading the email, it’s not hard to see between the lines. Never before has she reached out in such a personal way, and I know she wants more. She makes it so obvious that she wants more.
I could be a dick about it. Looking at the full body image of her in a provocative pose, scantily clad in a thin lace bra and matching panties, makes it so easy to be a dick. Here she is throwing herself at me, when she should know it’s not necessary. Desperate women don’t do it for me. I could make an exception, keep using her the way she’s using me. Instead, I dig deep for my integrity and dial her number on my cell.
“Hey there, Jack,” she purrs, using her nickname for me. I bite down on the callous remark and try to handle this as nicely as possible.
“Hi, Melissa, look we need to talk.”
“Do you want me to come over? I could be there in five,” she says, and I know that’s a horrible idea.
“No, I don’t want you to come over.” I’m certain I can hear her pout through the phone. Make it quick, dumbass. “Look, that email you sent? It was too much. I promised myself I wouldn’t keep doing this with you if I thought you wanted more from me, and it’s been made pretty clear that you do.”
“It’s not that,” she whines, desperately trying to sink her claws into me. “I don’t want more. I’m happy with what we have.”
“I don’t think you are. This is over, Melissa. I don’t want to hurt you,” I sigh, because I really didn’t. I thought we had been on the same page with our arrangement. Apparently, I was wrong.
“And you don’t think that this hurts me, Jacoby?” Her breath shudders on my name, and I’m certain she’s crying now. Damnit.
“I’m sorry if this hurts you, but it’s going to hurt a lot more if we keep up the charades. This is over, Mel. I’m sorry.” I disconnect the call before she can say anything else.
Taking a long slow pull of my beer, I groan when my cell immediately starts buzzing in my hand. Preparing to unleash my frustrations on Melissa, I’m surprised to see Brent’s number flash on my screen. “God damnit!” I call out to no one, chucking my phone into the opposite wall. It shatters it into several pieces. I need to get out of here. Chugging my beer first, I grab my coat and car keys, and head out to find a distraction.
After driving around town for an hour, somehow I wind up at a pub called Old Willow roughly 10 miles south of town. The building is worn and squat looking with several heavily frosted windows lining the front. Inside, the pub smells of cigarettes, both new and old, even though smoking is illegal indoors in Minnesota. The air is dark and dusty inside.
Spotting a vacant stool on the far left corner of the bar, I take a seat, ordering a whiskey neat to start off my night. Mindful of the fact I have school tomorrow, I promise myself not to have more than a few drinks to unwind before calling it a night.
A television above the bar is running recaps of last night’s baseball game, and it serves as enough distraction until the whiskey starts to mix with the beer and I find myself in more of a funk than when I arrived. For the first time in over two years, I’m lonely. I don’t want to think about my own life. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I wish I could think about someone else’s problems, offer support or reprieve. And suddenly, for some reason unknown to me, I find myself thinking of Tatum.
It became clear to me this afternoon that Tatum has issues. Something dark lives inside that girl, and damn, I can’t help but want to know what it is. Normal people don’t have a panic attack out of t
he blue. Her whole body shook and tears filled her eyes in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible by her usual demeanor. She comes off as hard as stone. Strong and sarcastic. I had to fight back the urge to comfort her, and surprisingly, it was a strong urge.
Even after the night we shared, and her overly rude behavior since, I feel a strong pull towards her. I want to figure her out. I want to help. Even if she doesn’t want it. As a teacher, part of my job is to help and mentor students, and I’d bet money that she needs my help, even if she won’t admit or accept that fact.
I toss back the remnants of the burning liquid, relishing in the feel of it as it glides down my throat before calling over the bartender for another.
Tatum. What can I do about her? She won’t speak to me with hardly any respect; every conversation we’ve had has been fueled by frustrations and annoyance. She can be immature, and yet, there’s a light that shines within her. Most girls with a bad rep wouldn’t be taking college level calculus the last semester of their senior year. She’s driven, but relaxed. Her personalities clash with one another. She’s like fire and ice. Which serves to explain why one minute she’s warm and open, and the next she’s the damn ice queen.
It’s well after midnight when I finish my fourth drink, and I decide it’s best to go home before I set myself up for a killer hangover. Tomorrow will be a new day, and I resolve to get to the bottom of Tatum’s behavior issues. Maybe I’ll consult Mr. Stephenson to see what he knows of her history.
Before turning out the light, I piece together my broken phone, knowing I’ll regret not having the extra alarm in the morning if I don’t. And as I’m drifting off to sleep in a buzzed haze, images of tear filled hazel eyes flash before my mind.
***
“What do you know about Miss Krause,” I ask the principal first thing in the morning. I drove in before first period so I could dig a little background on Tatum before I see her today. I’m sitting in his dimly lit office, and he’s staring at me curiously.